


Heart Rates

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [115]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Codependency, Curtain Fic, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Healing, Hospitalization, Hospitals, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Psychic Bond, Sick Sam Winchester, Telekinesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Sam's normal resting heart rate is 70 bpm. Dean would do anything to get close to that number again. [Continuation of A Product of Loveliness.]





	Heart Rates

**Author's Note:**

> make sure you've read A Product of Loveliness before reading this installment.
> 
> art by the incredible comuto-sama.

90 - The way Sam said it, but not said it, was last Tuesday.

99 - Dean worked for four hours at the garage. He meant to help out and earn a little extra money.

94 - Bleak clouds followed him all day. First car up was a transmission job--the owner wanted to keep the cost of fixing it down three hundred bucks or less. Car number two and three were basic oil changes and tire rotations that wound up taking longer because people expect miracles to happen when they don’t take care of their cars. Luis was in a bad mood. Everything that played on the radio in the garage sucked. Flor didn’t stop by with tamales like she had the weekend before. It rained on Dean’s way home.

100 - Dean forgot his key and the garage door opener.

98 - “Sam! I know you’re in there. This isn’t funny!”

99 - He hollered and banged on the front door, leaning on his cane, drenched, cold, and hungry.

99 - “What’s that?” Sam asked, waiting the lengths of three eternities to get off his ass and open the door. “Tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door. Only this and nothing more.”

105 - “Move it, nerd!”

106 - “Hello to you too, Dean. Forgetful today, huh?”

102 - “Bite me.”

105 - “You wish. Here. Give me your jacket, otherwise you’re just gonna throw it somewhere.”

110 - “If a man wants to throw his jacket somewhere in his own house, he’ll do it.”

111 - “Not if that man shares his house with another man who happens to also pay the bills. Give it. Would you quit pouting? Get into the living room. I downloaded Unsolved Mysteries for you.”

105 - “What? How? I checked every rock on the internet last week.”

110 - “They released it on Amazon yesterday. You’re soaked. What did you do for the two minutes you were outside? Take off your shirt.”

111 - “No sex now, TV.”

“115 - It’s not time for sex. Give me your shirt. I’ll get you a dry one.”

110 - “You made tea?”

112 - “Yeah. You’re late, but it’s probably still warm.”

110 - “Thanks, Sammy.”

115 - “Sure. I’ll bring you another shirt. Prop your knee up.”

110 -By Thursday, the weather changed. Sunny. Bright. Crisp. They spent the day running errands. Costco on 18th and Ashland. The dry cleaner on Blue Island. Tacos at Los Comales. Post office. Donations to drop off at one of the churches. The new bookstore next to the Jumping Bean Cafe. And a brief trek out to the suburbs to visit a record store. They were shoulder to shoulder while looking through Pop/Rock. Sam had his fingers flipping through Tom Waits and Dean skimmed through REO Speedwagon. When Sam stopped on a copy of Orphans, Dean leaned over and whispered, “My baby’s low down.”

115 - With a smirk, Sam whispered back, “She’s a rebel, she’s a yell.”

116 - The end of errands marked the beginning of shake, shake, shake.

116 - Sam tasted like clover honey and the Jimson weed. Under the covers, Sam was the crooked sheriff in a real straight town. A big red flag in a mean bullpen. Cold gun of ice blue metal.

115 - Friday morning was all hoarse voices and pancakes and extra syrup and pajamas and Robert Stack.

116 - Saturday, Sam baked cookies with Dean’s help and supervision. They were pretty good. And maybe, probably, possibly good enough to eat right out of the oven. Dean took a bite, then pressed his mouth against Sam’s.

114 - Sam wrote a letter to Kevin before turning down for the night. He wrote something about how Dean refuses to stop harassing the Republicans that moved in three houses down. Dean petitioned for that to be stricken from the record and for Sam to turn off his light and pay attention to him. Very little attention has ever been paid to Dean by Sam--ever. And it was high time that Sam fixed that.

115 - “Do you ever stop whining?”

116 - “You and some eighty year old lady are the last two people who write letters.”

116 - “Kevin is not an eighty year old lady.”

115 - “He might as well be. Put the pen down. I’m withering away.” 

115 - “Withering, wow. That’s a big word for you, Dean.”

116 - “I’ll show you what else is big.”

115 - And he did.

116 - Huddled together, no space between them.

117 - The sigh before falling asleep.

115 - The squeeze to Dean’s shoulder as he got up from bed at three in the morning.

116 - The squeeze to Dean’s shoulder as he came back to bed and pressed his nose to the back of Dean’s neck and mumbled, soft, hushed, and sincere.

116 - On the note in Dean’s lunch. Monday sucked a little less.

115 - Quick, on a phone call asking Dean to please stop littering a certain neighbor’s lawn with condom wrappers. “No,” Sam sighed, “I don’t want to know where you’re getting the wrappers, just please stop doing it. It’s bad for the environment.”

114 - In a dream Dean had that night.

115 - He walked through their home, a pervasive feeling of dread kneading his chest. The house was empty. But emptier than unoccupied. If a negative number had a feel to it, that would be it.

115 - Calling out to Sam, Dean’s tongue seemed to be coated in honey. He could speak, but every word was coated thick, mumbling, slurred, twisted. His dream included his cane, but it became more and more difficult to move forward. Standing still was fine. Moving back, no problem. Side to side was a piece of cake. He turned, walked like a crab, and shuffled into the kitchen.

115 - The blinds over the kitchen window rustled on their own. Dean looked outside.

114 - Pewter clouds hovered over a large swath of sky. A storm was on its way.

115 - Chicago could use the rain.

115 - As soon as Dean stopped feeling like he was walking through sludge, he could find Sam and suggest that they engage in the horizontal mambo. Or vertical. He has never been that picky. He’s kind of been wondering if Sam would go for a little game of doctor and nurse. He could be the doctor and Sam could be the nurse who happens to wear a pair of black, smooth panties to work. They could play with a fake stethoscope and Dean could make all kinds of puns and dirty jokes and kiss the hell out of Sam. He could make lube appear out of thin air and arch into the pressure and weight of Sam’s hips in his lap. It wouldn’t be the first time they fucked in the kitchen, seated on a chair, but it would be the first time they’d fuck as doctor and his cheeky nurse. Sam would shut him up with a searing, forceful, and strong kiss. Curl his fingers in Dean’s hair and continue kissing him--one kiss for every inch of his cock sliding right in. All the way to the base. Sam’s thighs twitching, ass clenching, chest heaving. How good it would feel. How fucking unbelievable. How privileged. Honor and arousal would spark after Sam would whisper how much he loves being fucked this way.

120 - Fingernails drag.

125 - Gasp. Moan. Grind.

128 - Carnal. Frenzied. Rough.

120 - Wince and whimper and another--please.

122 - They’d lose themselves in rhythmic thrusts. Dean would pound away inside of Sam, his cock buried deep, heavy, and aching. He’d fuck into Sam without a single doubt or hesitation.

120 - Without guilt.

125 - Just a rush of adrenaline. A spike of force. Sam would place his hand on Dean’s chest and hold him there, then ride him. Really fucking ride him. All Dean would be able to do is breathe. Breathe in Sam. Breathe out Sam.

129 - Come. Then, make Sam come.

115 - Shudder.

118 - Sam would ask for a cigarette.

119 - Dean tears away from looking out the kitchen window. Sam would never ask for a cigarette. He quit smoking years ago. Cold turkey.

119 - He stumbles backwards and bumps against the kitchen counter. Where is his mind? Where’s Sam?

115 - A single cigarette smolders in an ashtray on the kitchen table. What the fuck. This can’t be right. And all of a sudden, it’s sunny as shit outside. The lyrics to Thriller blare from out of nowhere. Dean winces and covers his ears, swearing, stumbling, knocking into the fridge.

114 - That’s their code.

114 - Taking his hands off his ears, Dean stands straight and looks around. He’s made it to their bedroom. His cane launches from his hand and snaps in half against a wall. Every piece of furniture in their room and throughout the house rises three inches off the floor, rattling in place, threatening and dangerous.

113 - “Fuck, Sam! Wake up!”

113 - Why was he telling Sam to wake up in  _ his _ dream?

114 - Dean opened his eyes.

113 - It was Tuesday morning.

113 - Just a weird, stupid dream. Sam was right next to him, slightly snoring, his hair a mess, and a spot of drool on his pillow. Like usual.

113 - He had to stop eating spicy food at night.

112 - It was just a dream.

“We gotta nail everything down. Now!” Dean shouts. “Nail it, bolt it--I don’t care if we have to duct tape you to the wall, it’s happening. Move!” 

He doesn’t mean to yell at the team of nurses in the Emergency Room. Most of them can’t be older than Kevin. But when they stand there looking at him like he’s waving purple dildos around in the air, he’s got no choice. The muscles in his throat and chest work together to make his voice boom through the room. They didn’t want to let him in. The ER is small enough. 

No one tells Dean he can’t follow Sam.

Not God, not the Devil, not even Death.

Machines begin to rattle. The nurses and the one doctor look up from their work on Sam. The crash cart slams against a wall--supplies spill everywhere. On the wall, the clock and a few signs shake. A box of tissues from the sink countertop whips past two of the nurses and lands on the floor. It throttles back and forth, like a dying fish, while the single folding chair in the room snaps shut. 

“Hold it!” Dean and a nurse wrestle with the heart monitor. “Hold shit down!” 

The stethoscope around the doctor’s neck flies off and hits a nurse in the mouth. Two nurses struggle to keep the crash cart from moving more, despite being turned over. Dean shouts for someone to hold down the oxygen tank behind the bed and clear as much shit out of the room as possible. Staff bleed into the room. Hands rush to cover equipment, fixtures, and Sam. 

Critical decisions take place with supplies snapping and the bed lifting two inches off the ground. 

Intubation. Blood pressure control. Blood tests. Stabilization of airway and breathing. 

None of it can happen. 

Clinging to the heart monitor, Dean closes his eyes. 

With the need to maintain adequate cerebral blood flow, severe hypotension should be managed with aggressive fluid resuscitation. Baseline systolic blood pressure below 100 mg Hg and diastolic blood pressure below 70 mm Hg correlate with a worse outcome. Someone rules out hypoglycemia and hyperglycemia. Infusions need to start. Labetalol. Sodium nitroprusside. Tissue plasminogen activator.

Pull. Sift. Push. 

If Sam wanted to wear something different, he could have asked Dean to go in and buy it for him. 

Kitchen. Get back to the kitchen. Dean bought tomatoes on Sunday so they could make salsa. Sam sharpened Dean’s knives two weeks back to make it easier on Dean’s hands. That was the night Dean made eggplant parmesan to appease Sam, who was apparently sick of eating burgers and steak, as if other food groups exist. 

He’ll make more eggplant parmesan.

Sam can smoke if he wants to. Dean won’t give him shit about it. 

And he’ll replace the flowers in the milk jug by the window. 

110.

112.

102.

99.

91.

91.

92.

90.

89.

88.

83.

Machines, instruments, equipment, and furniture freeze.

Dean helps the bed ease back down. 

Muffled, from the other side, Dean sighs. He reaches over and cradles Sam’s face in his hands.

80 - “Sam. Don’t go. Don’t go where I can’t follow, asshole.”

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ahh. finally. 
> 
> i tried a bunch of new things here. i hope it all makes sense/works/adds to the whole experience. we've got classic TCV banter and mirroring and psychic boys. 
> 
> onwards from here, friends. <3


End file.
